The Epic Fall of Arturo Zamora

FOR MY ENTIRE life, La Cocina de la Isla has closed on Sundays. Year after year customers have begged Abuela to open the restaurant, but she never has. She claimed Sunday the Zamoras, and that was that. No more discussion.
Ever since she’d handed over cooking duties to my mom, her oldest daughter, Abuela took her place on one of the sofas in the lounge area, smiling and surveying the whole scene. The chaos of so many people moving about and talking over each other didn’t seem to bother her at all. She looked happiest when the entire Zamora clan crammed itself into La Cocina.

My cousins Yolanda and Mari traded high school chismes on the outdoor patio. Martín and Brian sat at the bar area next to the kitchen to watch TV, flipping from MMA to basketball to hockey to baseball without settling on anything for more than three minutes.
Benny and Brad, my younger cousins, zipped around tables, pretending to be superheroes until they were scolded by my uncle for knocking over a chair. A few of my third cousins, two of my dad’s best friends from high school, and cousins who I called cousins (but weren’t really my cousins) sat around in different spots, waiting for food to be served.
My dad brought out the urns containing my abuelo, tío abuelo, and my tataraabuelo (yes, my great-grandfather) and carefully lined them up on the small service bar next to the dinner table, where we would eventually sit for our meal. Yep, even the dead joined us “in spirit.” The whole family was there, and everyone was in a really good mood.
I was excited for a bunch of reasons. It was the Sunday before the official start of summer, and summer meant hanging out, swinging on banyan trees, looking for manatees in the canals throughout Canal Grove, eating churros (because let’s be real: those deep-fried sugary sticks are all kinds of delicious), listening to music, and jumping around in Bren’s bounce house. Yeah, I know I’m thirteen, but there’s just something about a bounce house that makes me feel awesome.
I had a full week to chill out with my best friends, Mop and Bren, before they both left town, and even though I’d be working at the restaurant a few days a week, it seemed like summer was
off to a good start.
Mop and Bren were honorary Zamoras and almost always attended Sunday dinner. They showed up a little late today, popping in from the patio entrance. Bren walked toward me, his arms extended to give me a hug.
“¡Hermano!”
I half hugged him and stared. It must have taken him hours to put his outfit together. That was probably why they were late.
“What are you wearing, Bren?” I asked.
“I know,” Mop said, shaking his head. “I tried to tell him. I think he dressed up for Vanessa.”
Bren had been in love with my cousin Vanessa for as long as I could remember. She barely knew he existed.